


You Like Me

by anythingbutgrief



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutgrief/pseuds/anythingbutgrief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey are insecure doofuses, but they love each other a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Like Me

**Author's Note:**

> Vague references to past sexual abuse, mostly in how the experiences affected a character's idea of himself.

"Look so good like this," Ian murmured, and Mickey felt the blush rise on his cheeks so quickly it pissed him off, how it easy it was for Ian to embarrass him.

"Fuck off," Mickey said, but he flipped on his side to mirror Ian.

“‘S true, though. I like your hair all messed up,” Ian continued, thumbing at the few strands of Mickey’s hair that had fallen to the side of his face from the movement and the sweat from before. “Like it when your face is all red and you’re so relaxed like this. You look so happy.” 

_I **am**  so happy_, Mickey wanted to say. He opened his mouth, then shut it, watching Ian smile at him instead, pushing his fingers through Mickey’s hair. “Look so good,” Ian continued. “So hot.” 

Mickey felt awkward, fuzzy and warm and uncertain. It kind of made him want to pace around the room, but his legs were still worn out from wrapping and arching around Ian. It was…nice, laying here all worn-out and still getting persistent fucking butterflies because Ian told him he looked good. Had he ever…had he ever told Ian he was hot? He’d complimented him on his dick maneuvers at least half of the times they’d fucked, meaning hundreds of times at this rate, so he should get the message, right? He’d be able to tell by the way Mickey checked him out at every given opportunity, right? But…

He wanted Ian to feel this way too, all warm and bubbly and nervous and good.

Mickey bit his lip and kept his eyes focused on Ian’s chest. “You got a great body, you know?” 

"Yeah, I know," Ian shot back almost immediately, and Mickey’s eyes snapped up to see him grinning, smug. Ian leaned back on the pillows to stretch, showing off the long lines of his torso, muscles stretching on display for Mickey’s benefit. Yeah, sure, it made his mouth water. Whatever. 

Mickey rolled his eyes as Ian continued to flex and show off. Serves Mickey right for trying to be…fucking sweet or some shit. “Yeah, yeah, guess you’ve heard that one before,” he muttered. 

The smile on Ian’s face faltered for a second and grew smaller, but he still just shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.” He kept smiling, that tiny little toothless half-smile, but he looked down and picked at the sheet with his finger and thumb, brows furrowed, like he was trying to tweeze out something with his nails that just wouldn’t leave.

Mickey watched Ian’s face, the way the light had dimmed out of his eyes as he stared, apparently transfixed, at the blanket and thought…Well. Yeah. Lots of people had told Ian he was hot, he was sexy, had told him they wanted to fuck him. Ian had probably heard that more than anything else. 

Mickey scooted closer to Ian on the bed and hesitantly raised his hand to brush up against Ian’s chin. Mickey saw a bigger, more genuine smile threaten to take over Ian’s face at the touch, but he fought it off, still looking down at the bed below them.

"I like your face," Mickey finally said.

Ian leaned into Mickey’s touch, eyes sliding shut. “Is that your way of asking if you can give me a facial?”

"What—I—no.  _No_.” The sour feeling in Mickey’s stomach over how this conversation was going was now rapidly unspooling into full-on panic. Did Ian really think everything nice he said to him was about sex, in the end? Did he really think that’s all he was to Mickey? “I like it how it looks now, you know. It doesn’t need nothing else.”

Ian’s eyes fluttered open when Mickey thumbed a line across his cheekbone, but he didn’t say anything, just watched Mickey’s fingers dance over his chin and jaw and lips. “You look…” And Mickey swallowed heavily, watching something like fear rise in Ian’s eyes. “Nice.” God, Mickey wanted to slam his face into a pillow and scream at that.  _Nice_? That’s the best word he could come up with? 

Ian’s hands finally came up to touch him, at first grabbing him by the waist to yank him over on top of Ian’s body, then framing his face and hair, fingers running back and forth along the sides of his head. “You like me,” Ian whispered, staring at his mouth.

And Mickey wanted to lean in and kiss him but instead he held back, running his thumb lightly over Ian’s bottom lip, delicately, gently, like he was painting him. And the words,  _shut up_ , were on his tongue, and if he said them things would be fine, he knew. Ian would give him that broad gleaming “Oh, you” grin and they would make out and get hard and fuck again until they fell asleep and everything would be fine, and everything would be the same, and Mickey would be safe and….

He nodded instead. “Yeah. I do,” Mickey said, and Ian’s mouth fell open, eyes all wide and stupidly, impossibly green staring up at him like he’d just done magic. Mickey’s thumb kept on tracing that open mouth for a moment, then went up to rub at the spot behind his ear.

Ian’s own hand had gone still for a minute, and his mouth shut closed as he stared up at him. Mickey knew he must be blushing purple under Ian’s gaze, but it was okay. It was worth it, even when Ian whispered, “What do you like about me?”

And of course he’d ask that. Of course he’d be enough of a 12-year-old, like they were exchanging notes in class, to ask something like that. Of course Ian wouldn’t be too scared to look stupid. That was what Mickey liked the most.

"I like your stupid face," Mickey whispered back, because now, even though there was no pressing need to be quiet, it would feel like blasphemy to be loud, to say these things with anything but the most respectful gentleness. "Like your stupid voice. Like your laugh. Your smile." He thumbed at Ian’s lip again. "Especially your smile."

He could feel Ian’s breath coming out harder and faster against his own skin. “Anything else?”

Mickey leaned down to kiss him, thumbs moving up to rub circles into Ian’s jaw, still massaging him when he pulled back to whisper, “I like that you’re tough.” His hands lowered to run over Ian’s arms, his chest, his stomach, and his head dropped again, this time to press his open mouth against Ian’s chin and cheeks and neck, heartbeat racing underneath Mickey’s lips. He went up to his ear and kissed the lobe a few times. “I like that you’re soft.” Mickey’s hands traveled from where they’d been resting against Ian’s hipbones, back up to his face, fingers spanning from his head to his cheeks. “So soft,” Mickey said again, just looking down at him, holding his face.

"Isn’t that supposed to be a bad thing?" Ian asked, still in that soft whisper, hands wandering down Mickey’s neck and over his shoulders and down his back.

Mickey shook his head. “Not on you.” 

Ian’s face did that dumb wide-eye, wide-mouth of disbelief thing for a second, but just for a second, before that old golden glint gathered back into his eyes, that devious little spark that came seconds before he cracked the world open with his smile, that light that seemed to say, “Yes, I know,” but with none of the poison that those words had meant earlier. Ian finally smiled with his mouth instead of just his eyes and gripped Mickey’s head to lower him to his lips. This “I know” had none of the resignation, none of the defeat, none of the insistence that Ian knew his purpose was to be used and discarded like something on the edge of its expiration date, just on the edge of souring.

Ian silently spelled, “Yes, I know,” into Mickey’s mouth, flipping them over so that Mickey had his back pressed into the mattress, and licked into him with a confidence that was telling Mickey without words, “I knew it. I knew who you were. I knew you had this in you.”

Mickey sucked on Ian’s lips, first one and then the other, back and forth until Ian had had enough and took Mickey’s tongue into his mouth, holding on to it for a while before pulling back and murmuring, “I  _knew_  you liked me.”

And now Mickey rolled his eyes again, pressing at the back of Ian’s head to push their lips back together, wet presses over and over and over again. But Ian kept going, “Mm, I knew it. I knew you were…fucking…sweet.”

"Shut up," Mickey said, and he could say that now, no pressure on his chest, because they were only talking about him so there was no risk.

"No, I don’t think so. You like my voice, remember?" Ian teased, pecking a line from Mickey’s mouth to his ear. He licked along the shell, and Mickey felt his hot breath against his skin before Ian spoke again, right in his ear, just for him. "Thank you," he said, and now there was no teasing in his tone, none at all, his voice full and thick and sincere.

Mickey’s hand latched itself onto the back of Ian’s hair. “I mean it.” 

"Okay," Ian whispered, voice hoarse.

“ _Ian_.” Mickey laced his fingers through Ian’s hair, turned to kiss his temple. “I mean it.”

Ian nodded, slowly, and Mickey could feel him shaking a bit, just a bit, so he clutched on to him tighter.

Minutes later Ian had sagged against him, relaxed in his grasp, and for a minute, holding him that way, petting his hair, Mickey thought that he was about to nod off, but now he could feel that Ian had gone hard again, pressing against his leg, and then Ian whispered into his ear, “You wanna—?”

"Yeah, but. Hold on," Mickey said, putting a hand on Ian’s chest to keep him at a distance for a second, keep him from taking the reins completely. "Different position."

"You want…hands and knees?" Ian questioned, his little forehead wrinkles popping up at that, Mickey knew, because Ian had to overanalyze everything, apparently, and was obviously now questioning if Mickey wanted something less intimate after making himself so gooey and mushy with his words a minute before.

"No. Just." Mickey flipped over, on his side, shoving a pillow underneath his head. His naked back felt unnecessarily chilly without Ian pressing up behind him. "Come on, get with the program, Gallagher," he huffed out irritably, but with his back to Ian he smiled privately. He knew Ian liked it when he got grumpy. Mickey reached his hand behind him and waved Ian forward. "On your side. Like this."

Ian was pressed against him a second later, evidently just slow on the uptake, but now he had a hand wrapped around Mickey’s waist to pull their torsos together, had his head buried in Mickey’s hair, breathing deep, his other hand going down to hitch up Mickey’s leg for better access. 

Mickey felt like gel in his hands, but also stupidly nervous, spooning like this. They’d only ever done this  _after_  sex before, going to sleep. He’d never been held like this while he was getting fucked. The thought scared him as much as it made him feel warm. 

Ian’s fingers, slick with lube, reached down to press at Mickey’s ass and slid in easily, and he made quick but gentle work of the prep, Mickey still feeling the last round on his body. Ian dropped kisses along Mickey’s neck and shoulder and upper back as his hand worked between his legs, two fingers slowly shoving in and out.

When Ian first started to press in with his dick a minute later, Mickey noticed that it was harder for him to get as deep as they were used to, the angle was all wrong. Mickey arched his leg up higher, this time pushing it back so his foot slipped around Ian’s thigh behind him. “Mickey,” Ian said next to his ear, kissing his hair. “I don’t want you to cramp.” 

"It’s okay," Mickey said, honestly, pulling at where Ian’s hand was on his hip to place it on his leg. 

Ian set about rubbing at the knee and thigh immediately. “You tell me if it gets uncomfortable.” 

Mickey nodded his assent, leaning his head back against Ian’s collarbone as he began to push deeper inside, until he was all the way in again, making those soft grunting noises Mickey loved so much.

Mickey’s right hand, previously braced on the pillow next to his head, experimentally bent back, knocking Ian on the side of his head by accident, but he kept going until he had a grip on Ian’s hair, at first just softly petting him, then gripped him tighter when he started to feel Ian pull out to try to start up a rhythm. 

"Stay still a second," Mickey grunted out, reaching his other hand back to grip at Ian’s hip. 

"Need me to…?" Ian braced a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, like he was preparing to draw out, like he was worried it was too much for Mickey, but Mickey pushed back against him and shook his head.

"No, just. Stay put." Ian did as he was told, dropping his head down onto Mickey’s shoulder and giving him light, tickling kisses, and after a moment Mickey began pushing back again, this time grinding his ass in slow, deliberate circles, rotating on Ian’s cock. 

"Fuck, fuck," Ian huffed out, the hand resting on Mickey’s leg moving up to his waist and gripping harder, but he obeyed Mickey’s instructions, keeping still otherwise as Mickey moved, switching between making circles on Ian’s dick and pulling away an inch before pushing back to drag him all the way back inside. 

Mickey had established a rhythm—-circle, circle, circle, off, on, off, on, circle, circle, circle—for a few minutes before Ian’s hands started wandering, the one on his hip dipping lower, tracing long, gentle lines over his thighs, but he avoided touching Mickey’s dick. The other hand, resting above them on the pillow, drifted down to play with Mickey’s hair before going lower to his cheek, then his chin, tiling Mickey’s head back to meet his lips. 

The hand Mickey had on Ian’s hip stretched farther, grabbing at his ass, pushing him deeper and deeper, encouraging him to move now, but it was still slow, as slow as they’d ever gone, maybe the slowest. And…and Mickey loved it. He loved tasting Ian in his mouth, their kisses soft, slow, gentle. Loved feeling Ian’s fingernails make goosebumps spring up like a well-trained regiment in their path, loved feeling his fingertips dance over the hollow of Mickey’s throat, loved hearing him make those tiny little wordless sounds against his lips, loved how the only word Ian could come up with now was Mickey’s own name, like everything was Mickey, wrapped up tight in Mickey’s body, covered by him and covering him, the two of them moving together like the same ocean wave crashing back and forth. 

"Unhm, unh, Mickey," Ian whispered against his mouth. "Mickey, mmph." 

The whole area in between Mickey’s legs felt hot, burning-hot, but it didn’t hurt. He wanted more and more and more of it, wanted it to spread all throughout his body, this white heat in between his legs making him feel like he was melting and exploding and being remade, like he was some flaming star turning to liquid under Ian’s hands, like Ian was molding him into something new, but….but….no, that wasn’t right, even as Ian’s hand on his lip clenched and unclenched, squeezing him with firm pressure. It wasn’t right because Ian was a star, too. Ian had that heat, too. They were melting together. 

Mickey was starting to get breathless, too, so he broke away from Ian’s mouth and leaned back onto his shoulder again, putting the extra supply of air to use to push his hips back faster and faster against Ian’s. 

"God, we gotta do this more often," Ian murmured against his ear as he pushed his hand up from Mickey’s hip to his chest, playing over his pecs and his nipples while Mickey thrusted back onto him.

"Mm," Mickey assented. 

"Love you like this. Love feeling you like this." When Mickey glanced up he saw that Ian, with his chin braced on the side of Mickey’s head, was looking down the length of Mickey’s body, watching it move back and forth. "God, so gorgeous," Ian breathed out, sounding so far gone, looking down at him with his pupils blown, not even aware that Mickey was listening. "Gorgeous, gorgeous, God.  _Mickey_.” He sounded so completely wrecked, felt so completely wrecked, his sweat sticking against Mickey’s back and dripping from his hair onto Mickey’s shoulders, and it should have been disgusting, maybe it was, the two of them clinging together the way they were, but Mickey didn’t fucking care, it didn’t fucking matter, not when Ian’s voice sounded that way, in awe of him. Mickey felt… He felt…fucking sexy. 

The realization made Mickey feel drunk, but  _no_ , not really, not really drunk. He felt loose and relaxed, but in control, not like he was slipping and falling into nothing. Mickey was slipping under Ian’s fingers. He was falling back further onto his body. Mickey felt strong. He leaned his head back on Ian, neck relaxed as he resumed rotating his hips, thigh muscles burning with exertion, and laughed breathlessly before Ian’s voice cut him off. “I….you know how fucking much I….”

And Mickey’s chest burned, the tiny amount of air that had been remaining in his lungs decisively knocked out of him by Ian’s words, by the desperate sound of his voice against his ear. And a part of him wanted to say,  _No, no, I don’t know, I don’t know that, Ian_. But his body responded to the words like they knew them by heart, arching back faster and faster to meet Ian, to drag Ian back inside, unhappy every time he drew out of his body. Ian’s hand was roaming up and down Mickey’s chest, ribs, stomach, upper thighs, leaving marks in his sweat that Mickey could see when he glanced down the length of his own body. Ian’s fingers drawing patterns on him, Ian’s fingerprints all over him, for years now. He’d been drawing the words onto him often enough that Mickey’s skin knew what they meant, even if no other part of him did. “Yeah, yeah, I. Yeah,” Mickey whispered. 

He reached down and clutched hard at Ian’s hand, brought it to his chest—Ian’s body wrapped around Mickey’s body, Mickey’s hand wrapped around Ian’s hand, like they were protecting each other, even now. 

Ian had started thrusting deeper, harder now, losing the steadiness of his pattern the longer he went. “Mick. Mickey. I’m not gonna. I have to…”

Mickey nodded quickly, then brought their hands down to cover his own dick, the two of them stroking it together as their hips pushed together more urgently. 

Mickey lost all control, practically bouncing back against Ian’s pelvis and forward into his hand, his entire body trembling like a tree in a storm, but he reached back, licked the skin of Ian’s neck and stuttered out, “So much. So much, Ian. So much so much so much so much I—” 

Ian gasped like he had all the wind punched out of him, thrusted forward hard, deep as he came, and the noises he made, the cute little whimpers murmured against Mickey’s ear as he continued to thrust inside him, were enough to help Mickey spill over their hands, panting so hard for air he could barely do anything more than grunt. 

It took Mickey at least a full minute to get air back working properly in his lungs, and by then he noticed what a mess they were. There was come everywhere. Mickey was pretty sure he’d never sweat so much in his life, he was so sticky and wet and gross. A glance up told him that Ian was in the same situation, his hair dark from being damp. And Ian was still panting furiously against Mickey’s back, their sweat still shared between them. So gross, right?

Mickey swallowed a few times, trying to get his dry mouth to cooperate. “We gotta….we gotta clean up.” 

"Yeah," Ian agreed weakly, sounding like he was about two seconds from falling asleep.

"We can’t sleep like this. We gotta….we gotta move," Mickey said, sinking deeper into the pillow, feeling himself drain more and more of his will to shift a single muscle when Ian’s fingers started playing with his hair again. 

"Okay," Ian said, kissing the back of Mickey’s neck. "You move first."

"Fuck, no, you do it," Mickey weakly protested.

He felt Ian shake his head no without looking at him. “Nope. Gotta be you. I can’t. You feel…way too nice. Can’t move.”

"How the fuck do you think  _you_  feel?” Mickey grunted out, annoyed and comfortable at the same time. 

He felt Ian smile against his neck. “Okay. Okay. Both. We both do it. Count of three, right?”

"Okay," Mickey agreed, rubbing his thumb over the back of Ian’s hand where it still rested against his hip.

"One. Two. Three."

Neither of them budged an inch. 

They both started laughing at the same time, Mickey’s abs protesting with the effort but enjoying it all the same. “You fucking liar!” he accused.

"You’re a liar, too," Ian returned in between his dorky giggles, kissing Mickey’s sweaty neck. 

"Yeah, but we already knew that. You’ve truly revealed a new layer of yourself." 

"Still like me?" 

Mickey did move, then. He turned around in Ian’s grasp to face him, to look at him as he touched his hair. “‘Course I do.”

Ian smiled that smile, that triumphant smile, but small, private, quiet this time. “I always knew, you know.” He tilted Mickey’s chin up to bring their mouths together. “You. I  _always_  knew.” 

Mickey smiled against his lips. “I know.” 


End file.
